


Songs of the Familiar

by mageswagger



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 14:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7536040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mageswagger/pseuds/mageswagger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost after finding himself away from Mythal's temple for the first time in centuries, Abelas finds himself turning to the Inquisition for help - and finding a connection he didn't expect.</p><p>Based on prompt request:</p><p>"Abelas joins the Inquisition after Coryphytits. Two months pass as he acts as a party member, helping Lavellan clean up Thedas as the stern scion of the ancient elvhen we all know him to be. One day, he hears the sweetest song, an ancient declaration of love, filtering down from the battlements. He climbs the stairs, mystified at the sound, to find Lavellan sitting on the wall, looking out, singing sweetly. He watches. The armor of his heart cracks. He falls for her. HARD. You decide how it goes it can end up NSFW or not, I don’t care. It can be pure fluff, angst, unrequited or requited, whatever you want. </p><p>But Abelas definitely has to fall for her bigtime, and it definitely has to start at the moment he sees/hears her singing. The rest is up to you, though of course I’d love if they did get together. :P I just really, really need more Abelas. <3<3<3<3<3"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Songs of the Familiar

**Author's Note:**

> With permission, I’ve changed this from a Lavellan/Abelas fic to an Abelas/OC fic. The OC in question is the same was my OC in From Eden, Isala (who you can find by clicking my penname)
> 
> The Inquisitor involved is my Lavellan.
> 
> Warning: this does have some Sera hate? But that is because it is from Abelas’ POV. It’s not meant to be bashing.

Finding a purpose, as it turned out, was harder than he initially anticipated. To be fair, however, he had never thought it would be a particularly easy task. He had known the moment he allowed the Inquisition to have the Well that he resigned himself to a life without purpose. Without need. Without drive.

Months passed. The Inquisition succeeded in their goal. Abelas debated, dragging his heels even as he inadvertently found himself setting course towards the revered Skyhold.

When he came to the doors the security was tight - strange, considering they had been accepting refugees - and at first they had no inclination to let him in without a clearer purpose than ‘looking for the Inquisitor’. It was his luck, if one could call it that, that one of the humans who had accompanied the Inquisitor to the Temple walked by. The bearded man looked at him and then to the guards. “Let him in,” he said. “We know him.”

It was the first of many favors he would wind up owing the Inquisition.

…

The Inquisitor was an elf, like him. Lavellan clan. Short, slim, with dark skin and hazel eyes that reminded him of the way the sun would pierce through the green canopy of Mythal’s now abandoned temple. It was painful and refreshing at the same time.

Though he wasn’t sure he deserved the opportunity she gave him, when he approached her for guidance she smiled - sharp and bright and sincere - and told him that anything he could contribute was more than welcome. For now, he worked with the scouts. It wasn’t like before, where if you were skilled enough you automatically joined the Inner Circle. Times were harder than before - the Divine was to be named soon, according to the rumors, and people were starting to see the Inquisition as a serious contender in world politics. The people who sought the Inquisitions aid were not so earnest as they were before. Not all of them looked to help.

Abelas did not complain. It was something, and it kept him from doubting. That was more than he could have hoped for.

…

The tavern was always empty around three in the morning. The Iron Bull still lingered in his seat, snoring as he dozed (though he doubted the validity of said snores), and the spirit that had come to the temple would occasionally flit through.

Abelas never slept long, a few hours here and there, and so he took advantage of the solitude offered to him. The bartender on duty was a shorter elven woman with braided brown hair tossed over one shoulder. The mark of Sylaise decorated over her brown eyes, deep blue to match the colours of her dress. Her vallaslin was the only thing recognizably Dalish about her. Even her build seemed more reminiscent of the dwarven ideal - nothing like the slender, narrow lines that Abelas was more accustomed. 

If the woman noticed his analysis, she showed no sign of it. She just smiled at him, tucking loose strands of dark hair behind her ear. “Back again?”

He nodded once. She wasn’t deterred.

“You want a pint, yeah? That’s what you got last time.”

Another nod, and she went off to fetch his drink. Abelas sat silently, staring sightlessly at the bartop until a tankard was sat in front of him. He glanced up to see another flash of a too-happy smile. “There you go.”

Nodding his thanks, he took the tankard and sipped slowly. It wasn’t the best ale, but it wasn’t the worst. It was, at the very least, something to do, and he enjoyed the tavern when it was quiet. He would feel strange, and slightly rude, if he came here and hardly bothered to have at least one drink.

The elf turned her attention elsewhere, rag in hand as she went back to wiping down the bar. The top looked clean to him, but he supposed if he had to work at three in the morning he might just do the same thing. It seemed to keep her occupied at the very least.

Time passed. A few stragglers entered the tavern, sitting and chatting in hushed tones for a short while before heading off again.

It was five in the morning when Abelas inevitably left, leaving the money for his drink on the bar.

…

The Inquisitor promoted him, eventually. Inevitably. Abelas was skilled - he was an ancient elven warrior - and his skills were not to be directed towards menial labour for long. After a few weeks in her service she began taking him on teams.

Apparently, her hesitation hadn’t been born of whether or not he could handle the labour, but on whether or not he could, as she tactfully put it, “play nice”. He could, for the most part.

The youngest elf - Sera - was unbearable. He didn’t care for elves (not the way they were now) and she was one of the more obnoxious ones he had the dubious pleasure of meeting. Perhaps it was hypocritical of him to distaste the only other elf that seemed to share his distaste for the dalish, but that wasn’t his only purpose in disliking her. She was childish, petty, ill-tempered, foul-mouthed, rude, disrespectful, and an entire slew of words he couldn’t begin to list. Worst of all was her inability to accept that his beliefs were valid.

Abelas was not Andrastrian. He did not believe in their Maker, or their Andraste, but he did not belittle them for their beliefs. He understood, perhaps better than anyone else, what it was like to depend on something so intangible. He understood the need to believe in an other.

Sera was as attractive to him as the blight, spewing hatred for beliefs simply because she couldn’t and refused to understand them. It was his dislike for her that forced him to evaluate his own opinions.

His thoughts brought him to the bar once more, at three o'clock in the morning. The waitress was there, cleaning a row of glasses, and when he took his seat she smiled at him as if he told her something wonderful.

“Haven’t seen you in here for a while,” she observed. “Still want a pint of ale?”

“Please,” he agreed. Outside of his initial order, it was the first word he had said to her.

The elf kept smiling as she moved, filling a tankard with ale before setting it in front of him. He nodded shortly. “ _Ma Serranas_.”

“It’s nothing,” she said, tossing the towel over her shoulder. “Are you alright? You look a little pale." He raised a brow, and she flushed before correcting: "Paler than normal, I mean. You’re always sort of pale.”

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Thank you for your concern.”

She nodded once, wringing her fingers together as she hovered in front of him. He watched her curiously, sipping his ale.

“I’m Isala,” she finally introduced. “You don’t see many dalish in the Inquisition - I mean, aside from Lavellan, that is. But she isn’t really dalish anymore. Then again, I suppose I’m not either.” She shook her head. “Sorry, I’m rambling. It’s been a slow night.”

“I am not dalish,” he corrected her. She flushed.

“ _Ir abelas,_ I assumed because of the vallaslin - I’m really making a mess of this, aren’t I?” she laughed, pushing her fingers through her hair and holding it back from her face. Her braid was frazzled today. “But still. You don’t see many elves. I mean, there are two in the Chargers - Dalish and Skinner - but they’re intimidating. All the Chargers are, really. But they’re good people! Krem will help break up bar fights when I’m the only one on duty.”

He had little idea who these people were, though he recognized that they were the troops belonging to the large Qunari. He also knew Krem was the human - the tall one who acted as second in command. He sat in the bar more often than the others.

“Am I not intimidating?” Abelas asked instead. He wasn’t sure why he asked it, but he had been informed by the mage, Vivienne, that his demeanor was ‘not doing him any favors’.

Isala blushed slightly, fiddling again with her hair. “Well, at first, yeah. But you come in here a lot and just sit. Nothin’ too intimidating about that, is there? Besides, sometimes you look like you could use some company.”

That was new. Most people were content to ignore him. Abelas shook his head. “Not always. But thank you, nonetheless.”

She looked to her feet, cheeks burning. “I’m just - I’m gonna go in the back for a bit, yeah? If you need. That is.”

She scampered away then, like a mouse running from a cat. 

Abelas just kept drinking.

…

Time crawled by. He worked. He ate. He drank. He slept. He got up and he did it all over again. The repetition was nice - comforting - as it reminded him of his old purpose. A bit dull in comparison, but here he was awake to experience the whole of it.

Truly though, he didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

Abelas wandered around the grounds whenever the sun began to set, as usual, tracing his steps through the gardens and out, and further still to the battlements. As he climbed the steps a foreign sound caught his attention. He paused midstep, ears straining to catch the melodious sound.

It was a familiar song, but different from the one he knew as a child. Still, of all the dalish remnants he had found throughout Thedas - of all the elves he had met - this was the closest thing he had found that actually  _reminded_ him.

Curiosity piqued he moved, continuing his ascent until he caught sight of the evlen waitress, leaning over the battlements edge and watching the sun set behind the mountains beyond, casting the snow-covered tops in an ethereal orange-red glow. She was the one that was singing, and he realized it was the first time he had seen her in any lighting other than the dim artificial yellow of the tavern.

His steps stilled, and for a moment so did his heart.

She was the first thing he had seen in many months that he could consider truly beautiful.

It terrified him.


End file.
